


Heavy Petal

by violetpeche



Series: Yes I'm Changing [6]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Angst, Carnival, Cigarettes, Driving, Inspired by Music, Late at Night, M/M, Pining, Reunions, Sad Ending, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-20 11:30:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20674667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetpeche/pseuds/violetpeche
Summary: Today was weird.It was: watching people scarf down cheeseburgers stuffed between glazed donuts weird; witnessing a cow giving birth weird; strongly considering buying three shoe cleaning kits he knows full well he’ll use twice and never get his shoe as clean as the salesman did during his demo but thinks they’ll probably make good holiday gifts weird.And, to his surprise, it was also confronting your shame head-on weird.





	Heavy Petal

**Author's Note:**

> Please excuse any glaring typos. I wrote this over the span of two days, both days between the hours of midnight through 4am!! Tired and delirious. Blessings to Shauna for the encouragement to finish this as quickly as I did, and for combing through it.

Westward, a sea of molten, black blankets the horizon line where the sky meets the soft embers of city lights.

What Doyoung loves most about driving on the highways after 1 o’ clock in the morning is that he can go 85 in the fast lane, and typically the only traffic he has to dodge is the occasional semi-truck slugging their way through the winding roads. 

All he can see ahead of him is illuminated by his headlights, and the white dotted lines of each lane skipping out of the corner of his eye. He turns his music up high enough to block out the roar of wind cutting through the overpass, loud enough to drown out the belt squealing somewhere in his engine (that he really should have had checked at least over a month ago), and strong enough to keep him awake and unthinking.

It was a long day under the sun; the longest, in fact—the Summer Solstice was filled with copious amounts of sun cream, craft beer, and deep fried anything that was shoved in his face at the County Fair. He went, not out of choice, but as The Good Uncle who volunteered to take his nephew around the game tables. He forked out a fortune to win Minjun a small, stuffed Squirtle before returning him to Gongmyung and making his way to the beer tent.

He turns up his music higher, just two notches as soon as the bass kicks in. He feels it wobble and warp through the speakers, rattling the windows just shy of shattering. The piano stabs through the chorus, and Doyoung almost closes his eyes before he remembers he’s behind the wheel and not on the middle of a dance floor.

Today was weird.

It was: watching people scarf down cheeseburgers stuffed between glazed donuts weird; witnessing a cow giving birth weird; strongly considering buying three shoe cleaning kits he knows full well he’ll use twice and never get his shoe as clean as the salesman did during his demo but thinks they’ll probably make good holiday gifts weird.

And, to his surprise, it was also confronting your shame head-on weird.

It was well after Doyoung had handed Minjun over to his brother, well after he left the beer tent with his high school friends, and well into his walk through the stables to keep his wallet from going barren.

“Doyoung?” he heard call behind him. Or, more like, he felt it said behind him. He wasn’t sure, but he had been shoveling handfuls of buttery, salted popcorn mixed with peanut M&Ms a ghastly satisfying mix of savory and sweet that started to line his gut (and arteries) with chocolate-flaked air. His entire right hand was slick from each grip he funneled out of the bag.

He continued to walk past a pen of prize-winning pigs. He can’t remember how it smelled—probably because he had butter smeared across his top lip and at least five bottles of locally brewed IPAs metabolizing in his guts.

“Doyoung,” the voice said again. This time it had been closer—beside him, voice echoed adjacent to his line of view of a mare whinnying in her stable. 

The crowd around him thickened up near the enormous line for a petting zoo. Two dozen strollers were haphazardly stacked around each other outside of the pen while about 40 toddlers galloped around bleating baby goats, gently snuggled bunnies, and chased squawking ducks. 

Doyoung stopped in his tracks, inhaled one last handful of popcorn and shamelessly wiped his hand on the hem of his shirt.

“Is that you?” the voice said again, broad and deep.

He craned his neck, slowly inched to peer over his shoulder and see if the voice was actually calling for him, or someone else entirely who happened to have the same name.

But he soon came to find the voice _was_ calling to him, and he nearly dropped his bag of popcorn:

“Johnny?” he whispered, sweeping the cobwebs from his tongue. He hadn’t spoken that name in years. He felt his heart sink and soar at the same time.

The last time Doyoung had seen Johnny, he had stars in his eyes—or at least that’s how Doyoung remembered it. 

It was seven years ago, and they were both churning through a semester in undergrad. Doyoung did everything with Johnny—joined the rowing team with him, smoked his first joint with him, got shit-faced on 40s in a park until their guts turned inside out with him. 

Johnny was the first person to help Doyoung pull an all-nighter, was there when he was stuck on his personal statement for his first internship, and helped Doyoung sweat out a fever while studying three days before the biggest exam of his life.

He was also the first person that made Doyoung want to devour whole. He wanted Johnny to be with him, beside him, in him, to carry him, cherish him.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Johnny said through a smile. 

No, not just any smile—Johnny’s smile; one bright enough to melt the heavens into the earth. God, the sight of it made Doyoung’s knees waver. He’d worked _so hard_ to unlearn the way his pink lips curled at the corners.

“Wow,” was all Doyoung could manage to get out, legs rooted to the layer of hay beneath his feet. He couldn’t look away from Johnny, couldn’t help but trace every line of his face—all the ones he remembered, and noted the new ones that formed around his eyes. His hair was shorter now, swept away from his forehead to reveal a faint crease slashed through the center.

“How’s it going?” Johnny asked. It sounded more cordial than familial, and it made Doyoung’s chest pang. 

Gone were the days of how things _used_ to be. Johnny spent every major holiday at the Kim household—with the exception of Christmas. After their first Chuseok together, Doyoung’s parents made sure Johnny always had a place setting at the table. He became the unspoken “third son.”

Hearing that always made Doyoung’s stomach churn.

“Not bad,” he lied. He brought his hand up to dig into the knot forming on the back of his neck. “How about you?”

“Same!” Johnny dug his forefinger into his chest, and laughed like it was the greatest surprise in history. “What’ve you been up to? It’s been—”

“Seven years.” He had been waiting for him to mention how much time has lapsed. Doyoung couldn’t forget of the space between them narrowing in so closely again. Of course, the gap was made by Doyoung’s own bidding. 

He had spent nearly two excruciating years out of undergrad acclimating to a life beyond. A life, he declared, _After Johnny_. 

It was no easy feat for Doyoung to put together a life moving forward while living one still deeply rooted in the past. He fought hard to resist the urge to check all the new photographs Johnny would post on his website, or what other immediately gratifying hints of what he had been up to on his other social accounts.

“Seven years,” Johnny echoed. “That’s a long time.”

Doyoung swallowed down a lump he started to feel in his throat. He shoved his buttery-slick hand into his denim pocket in hopes Johnny didn’t offer a handshake.

A handshake, after all those memories? 

“You know, I tried to keep in touch,” Johnny said.

_I didn’t_, Doyoung thought.

“God, really?” he choked out instead. “I figured you were busy…. I guess the great Johnny Suh was too good for me.”

“Nice to hear you’re still annoying!” Johnny clicked his tongue and folded his arms across his chest. “And of _course_ I’m not too good for you. Never for my baby brother.”

Not even five minutes into their reunion, Doyoung was subjected to reliving the agony he spent seven arduous years drifting away from. His heart crumbled instantly, all over again, like a sandcastle to the wind. It felt as fresh and hot as the last day Doyoung swore to himself he’d never allow himself to feel this heartbroken again.

And it was silly, really, to let dormant feelings flood him from the inside out. Seven years had passed, and Doyoung’s mind tricked him into remembering he was in love with Johnny—or the _idea_ of the last Johnny he remembered. 

It was the Johnny who made hash browns and fresh squeezed apple juice to ease their hangovers, or would let Doyoung crawl into his bed and rub the anxiety away settled into his belly. The Johnny who helped Doyoung come to terms with his own sexuality—in more ways than Johnny could ever, ever truly understand—and was there to hold his hand when he told his parents.

But not even _that_ Johnny knew how Doyoung had felt back then.

Doyoung bit his lip, mostly to hold back a sob he managed to pass off as an obnoxious laugh.

Johnny dropped one hand on Doyoung’s shoulder, palm seering through the cotton. The weight of his touch reminded Doyoung to come down, to understand it wasn’t a fever dream, but Johnny really was in front of him again—and maybe it was a sign, maybe he could say—

“Daddy!”

The small voice had ran up and barreled into Johnny’s legs from behind. The laugh that unfurled from Johnny’s lips recalled to a ghost of fond memories that still clung to Doyoung’s ribs. But this time it was laced with a touch of tenderness Doyoung was never afforded.

“Why hello there, Abigail,” Johnny said as he patted the top of her head fondly. “Did you have fun with the bunnies?”

Doyoung’s life started to play out in front of him like a movie reel: a story so unbelievably cliched, he had no choice but to surrender to the reality of the situation. 

A confession he held onto for over ten years, one that started to build from the third week he had known Johnny, shriveled up again. This time, however, it fully and finally died on his tongue. He’d have to take his honesty to his grave.

He swallowed all the words he wished he could say out loud down one last time. It was always bitter when he’d wallowed in his own selfishness.

Johnny introduced him to his daughter: a living, breathing human being who looked _exactly_ like him—but much shorter with her hair long scraped back into a ponytail. 

Truthfully, Doyoung didn’t care to know the details, so he muttered an excuse to slip away and cut their brief reunion short.

“I gotta get home,” he confessed. “It’s a long drive.”

“We should catch up next time you come see Gongmyung! I’ve missed you guys.”

Doyoung nodded and clenched his fist to avoid reaching for his phone in his pocket.

In the end, it didn’t matter much anyway, did it?

After 1 o’ clock in the morning, it’s just quiet enough for the world to start to collect herself and rest before blossoming anew. Though the night bleeds across these hours, it’s the start of a new day.

Doyoung is back in his car cruising the open road with his music loud enough to drown out Johnny’s laugh, but not enough to erase the joy on his face from Doyoung’s mind. The relentless hi-hat turns into the backing track of the same clip, playing over and over and over and over and over and over and over.

Doyoung rolls down the driver’s side window a tad—just enough to light a cigarette. The air outside is damp, sticky with summer. The motor roars as he cuts through the hillside.

He’s going 80 now, and his foot eases off the gas as he closes in on a pair of glowing, red tail lights ahead.

He sticks a cigarette between his lips, tarry tobacco already leaching into his gums through the filter as the soft _ktch_ of his Zippo bursts aflame.

Inhale, drag, hold, sigh. 

Smoke curls past his lips, more substantial than the memories Doyoung can shake from a past he longs to turn back and rewrite for himself.

**Author's Note:**

> I have spent the last four days listening to Chromatics non-stop. Their music is super atmospheric; have a listen [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/37i9dQZF1DZ06evO2CGWKA?si=a7LdRJpaTgeBWqFxKijXew) if you are unfamiliar!
> 
> Semi-niche, but for those who know: their early catalog inspired the making of the movie _Drive_. That movie has such... an energy, particularly in the night scenes when Driver is zipping through the barren streets of Los Angeles. 
> 
> I spotted a tweet ([x](https://twitter.com/chimchams95/status/1172344755511889920?s=12)) that read:  
_does it ever fuck you up thinking about how old versions of you still exist to people out there. people you haven't talked to in years remember who you used to be and nothing about who you are now, and they're out there with memories of a version of you that kinda sucks_
> 
> After chewing up different ideas, I decided to allow myself to just... start writing and see where my fingers took me. The story led to a terribly sad JohnDo. I'm so sorry, my loves; I owe you a happy ending one day.
> 
> Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated! Thanks for reading.
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/johntographique) | [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/violetpeche)


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